


Mr. Finch's Home for Wayward Assassins

by Kakushigo



Category: JAG, Person of Interest (TV)
Genre: F/F, M/M, Multi, because I do kinda jump around, but you should definitely be familiar with POI, in which Harold Finch should Stop Adopting Stray ex-Assassins, no working knowledge of JAG needed
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-15
Updated: 2018-11-15
Packaged: 2019-08-23 21:53:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,609
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16627106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kakushigo/pseuds/Kakushigo
Summary: When a number lands Reese in the middle of a CIA "retirement" party, he makes a quick decision to save the other CIA agent and bring him along on his next assignment. Of course, as is the way with intelligence operatives, Webb knows something is up and offers to help with the next situation. Though initially wary of this other agent, both Finch and Reese find the additional help invaluable and read him in completely. And so begins Harold Finch's Home for Reformed Assassins, dog license pending.





	1. In the Beginning...

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Art for Mr. Finch's Home for Wayward Assassins.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16631318) by [Michaelssw0rd-art (Michaelssw0rd)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michaelssw0rd/pseuds/Michaelssw0rd-art). 



> Art by the wonderful & amazing Michaelssw0rd. Find more of their stuff [here ](https://michaelssw0rd.tumblr.com) & [here!](https://michaelssw0rd-art.tumblr.com)
> 
> There will be an update to this to link to their art which they'll also be posting separately.
> 
> There's definitely room for expansion in this universe and I have Ideas but they ended up being a bit too ambitious for the Big Bang. You might see them later though. (*cough*Shaw*cough*Root*cough*Shoot)

 

Today’s number is a retired accountant, Alden Smithfield.  He owns a nice apartment in downtown Manhattan that John is currently breaking into.  It has sound security measures, but nothing that John can’t beat with a little time. He hasn’t bluejacked Smithfield yet, considering he hasn’t laid eyes on the man.  Smithfield left from his apartment at 6 am today, before Finch got his number, and neither he nor Finch have laid eyes (or cameras) on him since. It’s a bit unnerving, so while Finch is watching the credit cards while he’s doing a bit of breaking and entering.

He finally gets in, and it’s only thanks to his intensive training that he doesn’t stop cold.  Mr. Smithfield, John finds, really likes the color white. His whole apartment is furnished in it, with subtle hints of gold.  Even with his gloves on, John rather feels like he’s dirtying things by walking. The carpet softly envelopes the soles of his shoes- very, very expensive.  Not that much of a surprise, given the state of the guy’s finances, but really - all white? They were lacking a motive- either for Mr. Smithfield to be killed or for him to kill someone, so Reese is indulging in a bit of B&E.  Finch had gone over the man’s sparse social media with a fine-toothed comb- there’d been quite a few acquaintances, but no real friends and no one strong feelings towards him (unless one counted the couple who’d been very, very disappointed to find Mr. Smithfield uninterested in sleeping with them, and they’d been rather polite about the whole thing as it was).

The apartment yields little except a couple suits that would make Finch jealous, a wealth of canes, and a laptop that hasn’t been used for much besides accounting and a single social media site.  The fridge is full of basics- all of them obviously bought only as needed. There’s a sticky note on the fridge listing only coffee creamer.

Reese is going over it all again, in case he missed something the first time, when Finch finally gets a hit.  “He’s just used his credit card,” Finch informs him, voice calm and clear in John’s ear, “in the bakery on Prince.”

“Headed there now.”  John acknowledges, making sure there’s no trace of himself on any of the creepily pristine white surfaces before leaving and melding into the swell of New York.  

When he sees Mr. Smithfield in person for the first time, he’s underwhelmed.  The picture taped to the glass in the Library is a bit more flattering than the real person.  Mr. Smithfield’s hair is nearly all white, with only a little of its original black flecking it.  His immaculately white suit has neat gold and silver stitching on it- but it doesn’t detract from the fact Smithfield simply looks old.  The dry cleaning bill must be exorbitant, especially since he didn’t see any casual wear in Smithfield’s closet and all his pajamas were of a similar quality (and color) to his suits.

Their number had taken a table against the front of the building, facing out towards the street- which means John can walk into the bakery behind him and see what he’s reading.  It’s a French book, though Mr. Smithfield’s notes in the margins appear to be Geman- John doesn’t get a close enough look at the small, neat characters to confirm. He’s pretty sure he saw a ligature, which is a good case for German.  It also happens to be one of the four languages, beyond English, listed in Mr. Smithfield’s resume.

Reese grabs a coffee and a confectionary before settling down a short ways away- almost a perfect vantage to see what Alden sees and know if the threat arrives.  He pulls out his own cell phone to clone the man’s phone and frowns when he sees the force pair fail.

“Finch,” he says quietly, so that no one else in the shop can hear him, “we have a slight problem.  Someone else has him tapped.” Which is definitely a point in the victim category, rather then perpetrator.  He’s scanning the people around them, looking for another tail, but no one pops immediately. Which means a talented tail if there is one.

It’s the normal morning rush for coffee and no seems to be paying Mr. Smithfield any special attention.  Smithfield himself seems unconcerned and eats his pastry (apple crumb cake) while drinking his morning coffee (special Colombian bean with soy milk -not coffee creamer- and half a packet of sugar- the same thing he apparently gets every Thursday, according to the woman at the counter and confirmed by Finch’s dive into the man’s credit card history).  Mr. Smithfield is either a slow reader or doesn’t know French well, since it takes him nearly 15 minutes to turn the page. He only gets about six or seven pages done before he stands, tucks his book under his arm, and slides into the New York crowd. Reese follows him with some relief, a tail tends to be a bit more obvious on the move, so he can observe something other than Mr. Smithfield.

Smithfield’s pace is just as sedate as everything else about him, so Reese is careful not to outpace him and have to circle back around.  He makes a show of being a tourist- stopping to take pictures every so often and the New Yorkers weave around him like any other gaping visitor.  Reese keeps an eye out, but he doesn’t see anyone else following Smithfield. Then Smithfield takes a sudden turn into an alley, which Reese has to walk past - a little obvious if he just does an about face.  He drops his phone and uses the motion when retrieving it to take a second to peer down the alley and sees Smithfield walking quickly through it.

“Keep an eye on Smithfield’s phone,”  Reese tells Finch, “I’m about to lose him.”

“What’s he doing?”  

“Losing a tail.  I don’t know if I’ve been made or Smithfield thinks someone else is following him, but he seems pretty practiced at losing one.”  Reese tries to keep his voice down, letting it fade into the general hubbub of New York as he brushes off his phone and meanders to the next connecting back alley.  

There’s a couple seconds of silence that Reese knows mean that Finch is doing something on his computer.  “He hasn’t ditched his cell phone,” Finch tells Reese, rewarding him for his patience. “I’ll guide you through the city back to him.”  And then Finch is in his ear, sending him up the alley, across a street, and sideways into a different alley. It takes 10 minutes, but he’s once again behind Smithfield.  For all that he gave Reese the slip, nothing else about Smithfield screams professional tail-doger, he didn’t drop his phone, he didn’t change his outfit (and the all white getup plus the expensive cane was a magnet for attention, even in New York), but Reese was on high alert now.  When Smithfield ducks into another alley, Reese takes a second to consider- then follows after.

Smithfield never once looks back, but keeps taking alleys until they’re at a dead end.  Then he turns around to face Reese, leaning heavily on his cane. “Hello,” Smithfield greets him with a smile that makes him seem younger just for a second.  “I assume you’re here to retire me?” It’s a question, but it’s one that assumes the answer is already known.

This man is a spook- or former spook, probably the same agency that had owned Reese for the longest time.  He remember Ulrich, the only other spy’s number they’ve been given and considers Smithfield- he wasn’t anything like Ulrich.  His background wasn’t foreign, he had traceable habits and actual visible work that went back years. Deep cover then. And he was expecting retirement- in Reese’s former line of work, people don’t get old.  So this man is an anomaly, but Reese is only here for information, and possibly protection. At least now they knew who the threat is most likely from, assuming this guy was not planning to play them like naive fiddles .

He doesn’t lift his hand to his earbud, but he watches Smithfield as he speaks, “Finch, do some digging.  I don’t think Alden Smithfield is his real name and I’m willing to bet he worked with the CIA, who are going to give him their standard retirement package.”

There’s no sign of shock on the other man’s face, but Reese knows he’s surprised him.  “You’re not with The Company,” Smithfield says, subtly admitting Reese is right about the CIA, “so please, leave me alone.  Retirement parties get messy and I’m far overdue. I’d hate for someone like you to get caught in the middle.” It’s unfalteringly polite for someone expecting to be shot- he’d thought Reese was going to kill him, yet all he’d done was go to a place where there would be no witnesses and no bystanders. Considerate for a spook, and less dramatic than he was used to. If Reese had been here to kill him, Smithfield would be dead and it’d look like a mugging gone wrong which would never get solved. Completely unassuming- that’s how Smithfield intended to die.

“Someone like me?”  Reese asks, faux casual.  It’s all about information now.  Finch is quiet in his ear and as soon as he has something, Reese’ll know.  Until then, he gets to pump a former spy for information.

Smithfield nods, drawing his cane near him so he can rest on it more comfortably.  “You’ve gotten out. It’s not easy and I think you’ve given enough for your country, haven’t you?  I don’t know exactly what you were planning on doing with me, but it would bring you to the attention of the CIA.  Whoever you worked for would know you aren’t dead anymore.” It’s delivered monotone, as though he isn’t at all concerned about Reese at all, but the fact he even said anything and tried to warn Reese away speaks volumes.

Reese settles at that.  He knows Smithfield’s type, and he’s pretty sure if Smithfield wanted it, the death squad coming after him wouldn’t stand a chance.  He just needed something to live for. “Mr. Smithfield, I work for a concerned third party. We’re canceling your retirement plan and possibly faking your death.”  While Alden Smithfield might not be his real name, it was the only one that Reese had right now so it would work.

That catches Finch’s attention as well.  “We’re what, Mr. Reese?” Finch doesn’t sound amused, but Reese knows he’ll understand once he explains it.  The CIA won’t relent until they know this guy is dead, so they are going to have to make it look good. Very good.

“It won’t work.”  Mr. Smithfield’s voice holds no inflections and the posh accent from earlier vanishes.  This man was once a very good spy, and Reese is willing to bet he had a few tricks left.  “If you’re not going to shoot me then you’re going to get shot. I’ve faked my death before, and the CIA has a price on my head.  Just my head.”

Most of the time, the CIA was content with a few molars.  A beheading was something else entirely and Reese moved his estimation of this man up a few notches, even if he was remarkably forthcoming now.  “I intend to give it to them without a fight.” Smithfield continues calmly, “I am an old man now, of no use to the State. I was supposed to die in the line of duty, but I suppose this shall do.”  Men this loyal (or this tired) are hard to come by and spies tend to die young.

It’s not exactly like him, less then a year ago, but it’s close enough.  And unlike Ulrich, this man doesn’t seem intent on killing anyone- just dying.  To test it, Reese pulls his side arm. Smithfield actually relaxes- the sign of a man who has been in the field so long that everyone is an enemy.

“I’ve found half a dozen other identities he’s used,”  Finch tells him, slightly exasperated. It seems more obvious than normal, in the face of Smithfield’s bland tone.  “But unfortunately, none of them are real. And none of them worked with the CIA- officially or unofficially. He seems to have run a lot of domestic ops.  If we got his fingerprints, I’d have a better idea but presume he’s extremely dangerous, Mr. Reese. And your old friend Snow is leading his death squad. They’re using the name Smithfield and the field name of Claymore in their communications.”  That’s a hell of a lot of information, and Reese is pretty sure the CIA won’t be happy about that breach, but it gives him something to work with.

“They’ve sent Mark Snow after you.”  Reese tells Smithfield. “You’re familiar?”

Smithfield sighs, as though Reese has done him a serious affront.  “Why tell me? I do prefer not to know the name of my sniper.”

“He’s not going to be your sniper,” Reese assures him.  “You’re going to get a normal retirement. I hear you’re quite the forger, why not make it so the CIA can’t find you?”  Most spies, even the good ones, only have two or three solid identities, the rest are smokescreens. Finch found traces of at least six.

It doesn’t seem like Smithfield will give Reese the answers he wants at first, but then his face softens and he answers Reese’s question.  “Because I’d go back home and you know how dangerous that is.” Reese knows that if Jessica were around, he’d go back. He doesn’t know what home is to Smithfield but he knows going back is impossible.  Whatever the CIA makes them, it’s not suitable for any kind of civilian life.

Reese slides his gun back home and gestures out of the alley.  “Come along, Mr. Smithfield, consider me your shadow for the day.”  He doesn’t like the idea of potentially crossing guns with Snow, but he’s not going to let this number die.

Smithfield is giving him a disbelieving look when Finch’s voice sounds in Reese’s ear again.  “Mr. Reese, there’s been a slight complication.”

“What is it, Finch?” There is a split second of worry that maybe he called Smithfield wrong, and Smithfield is going to be a perpetrator, but Reese dismisses it.  While Smithfield is no doubt perfectly capable of murder, today the man isn’t inclined to do so.

“We have another number. Quite unrelated, I believe.” Finch sounds slightly apologetic, but Reese thinks he might have the answer to the Smithfield problem.  

After all, Finch gave him a job, a purpose.  He’d quite literally saved Reese’s life. Perhaps he can do the same for Smithfield. “Give it to me, Finch.  Me and my new friend will take care of it.”

“My new friend and I,”  Smithfield corrects. And now that he sounds ever-so-slightly miffed, Reese counts it as a win.  

“If you’re sure.”  Finch is dubious, and it comes through even over the mic, but Reese has a good feeling about this.  “Her name is Emily Dutchon.” He continues on with her address and what he thinks got her in trouble- medical debts which she’d paid back with help from some less than reputable folks.  Reese offers the scowling Smithfield a small grin- he’s pretty sure he knows how to save this number, and the next. It’s going to be fun. It’ll also be the first time he’s worked with a partner since Finch hired him. While he is both protective of Finch and also unsure if Finch is trustworthy, Finch is a Commander -and not a soldier- while Smithfield is a fellow soldier.

“How would you like to do one last service to your country?”  Reese asks Smithfield. “Something small.” Saving a life isn’t something Reese personally considers small, but the CIA can alter one’s perspective on the cost of a life, and Reese knows that.  But Smithfield will probably help him out anyways, because loyalty is either caused by naivety or a firm belief in something despite the flaws, and in some rare cases...a choice.

“What is it?”  Smithfield asks and Reese knows he has him.

“Emily Dutchon is going to be in trouble.”  Reese throws over his shoulder as he exits the alley, Smithfield falling into step with him.  “ And we’re going to stop it.”


	2. Mr. Webb & Emily Dutchon

Emily’s case wass straightforward as Reese thought it would be, but the number’s arrival had been cutting it close.  They’d gotten involved in a shootout and Reese found out that Smithfield’s cane was multipurpose while the man himself was a crackshot.  Thankfully, after the first shot Smithfield went for the knees like Reese did. Then they were left with one dead banger, a bunch of injured ones, and one terrified young adult.  Smithfield, once the last of the enforcers were down, made a beeline for Emily and Reese tensed up slightly, prepared to have to stop him from saying something. CIA agents are not usually the best at comforting people, though Reese likes to think he’s personally been getting a bit better at it.

“Hello, Emily, I’m Clayton.”  Smithfield introduced himself to the woman, getting down on the floor to help her up.  “I’m sorry you had to see that.” Gentle usually isn’t how one describes spies, but Smithfield is gentle with Emily.  Spies having children is highly discouraged, but Reese is reminded of a father with their daughter in Smithfield’s mannerisms- perhaps the man had managed what few spies do.  “Do you know why they were after you?”

Reese had already briefed Smithfield on all that, repeating what Finch said as necessary, so Reese presumes this has little to do with actual knowledge and is some sort of calming trick.  He relaxes and starts working on zip-tying and collecting guns from the fallen men.

“I, uh,”  Emily’s voice is shaky and she keeps glancing at the groaning bodies, “I owed them money.  I needed money for- for my medical bills. My insurance wouldn’t cover the work I had done.”  

Clayton nods twice as she talks.  “How much did you borrow and how much did you owe?”  He doesn’t ask what for, which Reese thinks is probably a good idea, though they do both know.

“I borrowed nearly 200,000.”  She told him, looking at her feet and away from Clayton.  “I owed them nearly twice that by now. I thought I could keep up payments, but I couldn’t.”  Her voice got rougher the longer she spoke and by the end, she was crying and Clayton wrapped his arms around her in a hug.  

“My friend and I will take care of that,”  Clayton promised her quietly, letting her sob into his shoulder.  “Do you have a safe place to go for 24 hours?”

She nodded into his shoulder.  “Yeah,” she managed to mumble softly.  “My sister’s.”

Clayton hummed.  “That sounds perfect.  I’ll make sure your apartment is a bit cleaner when you get back.”  This “Clayton” character is wholly different then “Smithfield” had been earlier, and Reese watches from the corner of his eye as he finished restraining the enforcers for Fusco and Carter to collect later.

“Is it done, Mr. Reese?”  Finch asks, distracting Reese’s thoughts from Clayton for a second.

“Yes, Finch, it’s done.”  Reese reassures Finch quietly, hand curled around the ear with the earbud in it.  “She’s safe- staying with her sister while this all gets cleaned up. Wanna get her a new apartment?  I think the police will want to keep this one under tape for a while.” Not to mention living in a place where you almost died isn’t exactly pleasant.  “Clayton promised to do something about her debt, so I’ll probably be back late, if I drop by the Library again.” He liked to bookend his days with seeing Finch, but he wouldn’t blame Finch for deciding to pack up now that their two numbers were done.  Today had been a long day.

“What do you two intend to do?”  Finch’s voice was vaguely alarmed.

Reese didn’t really know, but he was pretty sure he could stop Clayton from doing anything too drastic.  “If I’m reading him right,” Reese was pretty sure his explanation was going to fall short with Finch, but he had to try, “these are not the last gang members we’ll rough up today.”  Hopefully they got group discounts on knee replacements.”

“Mr. Reese,”  There’s a hint of warning in his voice and Reese knows Finch doesn’t like violence, but these people were willing to kill Emily.  She’s not really out of danger until the people she borrowed from know she’s protected. Clayton leaves the apartment, guiding Emily along, and Reese follows at a distance.

“Could you please let Fusco know I’m done in here?”  Reese asks Finch in an effort to distract him from the other issue at hand.  “And to bring a coroner. Smithfield didn’t get non-lethal until the second shot.”  The first shot had found its intended target.

“You know I don’t approve of violence.”

Reese didn’t blame Smithfield for going for lethal, the man was still used to the CIA’s way of doing things.  “I know, Finch. He figured it out quickly though.” Smithfield had followed unspoken orders. As it is, Smithfield has gotten Emily a cab and handed her something that Reese couldn’t seen but it was small enough to be cash- Smithfield wasn’t too corrupted by his time with the Company.  “Going quiet. Still listening though.” He turned his earbud off so it wouldn’t transmit as Clayton came back to him.

“I have wheels if you have a location,” Clayton said, back to leaning on his cane.  “And if you don’t have a location, give me a couple of minutes and I’ll see what I can do.”  

Reese opened his mouth to say he didn’t have a location but there were some sources, but Finch’s voice stopped him.  “3742 Dradmont. The warehouse district, of course.” Reese had to give a little smile at that- Finch never stopped listening.  “Minimal cameras, but you’ve got your phone.”

“Get your car, Mr. Smithfield.  We’re going to 3742 Dradmont.” Reese repeated what Finch had told him for Clayton’s benefit.  “Though I must admit, I’m curious as to what you drive.” Whatever it was, it wasn’t registered in Smithfield’s name- the man didn’t have a driver’s license, never mind a car or motorbike.

Clayton grins and shows his teeth.   “I think you’ll like it, Mr. Reese. Come along.”  The man moves fast when he wants to, but Reese can keep up.  

“Is there anything actually wrong with your legs?”  Reese asks as he watches Smithfield’s cane keep perfect time with him.  Either the man is an extraordinary actor, has a lot of practice, or is actually injured and a master at ignoring it. All are equally possible.  

Smithfield doesn’t answer, even as he casually scales a parking garage and picks a car, seemingly at random.  He waves his phone over the door, and they fold up like fins. “Get in, Mr. Reese.”

Reese gives Smithfield a look.  “This is going to draw too much attention.”

“I draw too much attention.”  Smithfield replies drly, gesturing to his getup.  “But it means people remember the suit, not the face.  In this case- the car but not the people who got out of it.  I’m assuming, despite rumors of a “Man in a Suit” floating around in New York, you actually aren’t keen on getting identified.”

It’s true, so Reese gets into the car.  The car itself has a clutch, but it doesn’t seem to give Smithfield any issues as he roars out of the parking garage and guns down the roads of New York, completely ignoring the laws of the road.  Reese appreciates the aggressive style, while also wishing he was the one behind the wheel instead.

And then Smithfield doesn’t stop when they reach warehouse, just plows through the front door.  Never before has Reese considered the way he does things to be low profile, but when they get out of the car, Smithfield reaches under the car and passes Reese several new clips as well as acquiring a new firearm for himself.  The gang never saw what was coming.

Their position wasn’t easily defensible and the car was written off quickly, but the worst of the injuries between them was a graze on Smithfield’s side.  No one died and the boss was there for Smithfield to give a message to. Watching a hardened gang leader piss himself as an old man hobbled over to him was probably the highlight of Reese’s day.  To be fair, he’d just been shot in both knees- Reese went for the left and Smithfield for the right.

“I’m here about Emily Dutchon.”  Smithfield says to the man on the floor congeniality, settling in the vacated chair and kicking the man’s gun to the far side of the room.  “I’m sure you know her.”

“I don’t know who the hell you’re talking about,” the man spits, “but my men will kill you.”  It’d be a more effective threat, Reese thought, if he wasn’t laying in his own piss.

“Your men have already been taken care of,”  Smithfield replies with a smile, “by my friend and I.  See, we’re here to tell you her debt is paid in full.”

“Even if I did know who you were talking about-”  Reese tuned the leader out then, hearing something.  It was quiet and coming from the wall behind the desk.  Smithfield’s attention was on the leader, so this was for Reese to focus on.  He turned his comm back on and eyed the walls of the room. 

“Finch,” he addressed Harold under his breath, “could you get me the dimensions of the warehouse you sent us to?”  Harold got them to him nearly immediately and Reese did some quick math- this room wasn’t big enough. That meant a false wall, possibly passage.   Unfortunately, Reese didn’t know how many people to expect- so he picked up the leader’s gun and aimed low- shooting a stripe across the length of the wall.  There was a lot of screaming from the other side, but Smithfield didn’t so much as blink. 

In fact, he gets up, stretches, and hobbles back out the door only to stop by Reese.  “I believe we’re done here, Mr. Reese.”

Reese gives a mild shake of his head as he follows Smithfield outside.  There are the unconscious bodies of several gang members strewn about and Smithfield picks various items out from between them.  The car they arrived in is burning away merrily, but Smithfield seems uninterested in that. 

“Out of respect for what you and your friend do, Mr. Reese, I won’t let the CIA retire me.” Smithfield tells Reese, in the middle of deconstructing a gun one of the men had been using earlier.  “And if you ever need a hand, I’d be happy to help But right now I need to get out of the country.” He offers Reese a tight-lipped smile and Reese nods back. He knows how one has to move to stay ahead of the CIA.

Though Reese has no intention of ever needing help, he doesn’t know what The Machine might decide it needs him and Finch to do.  If Smithfield is offering his help, perhaps Finch would like to capitalize on that later. “How should I get in contact with you?”  

“You can send a postcard to this address if it’s not an emergency.”  He writes an address in France down on a page in his book, which he’d managed to keep on him the whole day, then tears it out and offers it to Reese.  “If it’s more urgent- go to a payphone and dial 111. Tell the operator you want Clayton Webb. It’ll only work once, though.”

Reese was rarely at any office- home or abroad, but he knows that name.  Clayton Webb was a deputy director a while back, and was probably one of the few other agents that Kara ever spoke of with appreciation. Reese doesn’t believe in coincidences.  “Is that your name? Clayton Webb?”

Webb, if that’s indeed his name, is amused by the question and offers Reese a smile.  “As much as John Reese is yours.” A couple years ago, John would’ve said it wasn't his name.  These days though, he’s gotten used to it. Finch has practically re-christened him, but Reese doubts Clayton knows about that. Clayton is simply a name that the man is familiar with and has operated under for a long while.  “Goodbye, Mr. Reese.”

“Goodbye, Mr. Webb”  Reese replies and watches at Clayton strolls off, whistling.  Reese follows after him, slightly curious but Clayton loses him in seconds, this time actually dropping his phone.  Reese picks it up and shakes his head at the smiley face screen that flashes before the phone bricks itself.


	3. Bear: Forger of Bonds

John had never intended to actually need Clayton, since he had everything he could ever need with Finch, after all, but then Root took Finch.   And suddenly he was needed two places at once- tracking Finch down and still running The Machine’s numbers.

The Machine has just called him and he’s written down what it says to him (her? them?) - it’s a code. He doesn’t know the code yet and it’s tempting to just leave it and go after Finch but he now knows what Finch meant when he said that he had a contingency plan-  Reese is the contingency plan. And so when he puts the receiver down, after The Machine gives him the number, he picks it back up and dials 111. He could bring the detectives in on this, but Webb would be more efficient then either Fusco or Carter, and he doesn’t have a day job that’ll get in the way.

The “operator” in this case is an older-sounding male that has a slight synthetic quality to it.  And he asks for Clayton Webb. There is no one who picks up, but there’s a beep on the other end then the voice of the man he worked with before who states one simple thing, “One day.”  And then a matching beep. Reese doubts it was anything other then pre-recorded, but he can hold out one day. Probably. In the meantime, he heads back to the Library to see if he can crack Finch’s code, offering one of the video cameras he sees along the way a glare.  The Machine should understand that Finch is more important than that mission.

At the Library, Reese tries every cipher he knows, and a few he doesn’t (courtesy of a codebreaking book in the Library).  He’s about to give up and erase his work when he notices the binding on the books. Uncertainty, Romeo, Kilo. Family, Alpha, Mike.  Reflections, Juliet, Oscar. What if it was a code you could only find in a library? R.K- title with uncertainty in it. Reese’s eyes scanned the stacks before alighting on the book he needed- he’s cracked the code.  It’s exceptionally clever and Reese wonders how Finch taught The Machine it. 

Once he breaks the code, the rest is easy.  He has the number, the number goes in the computer and the computer gives him information about the person he’s supposed to save.  In this case, one Leon Tao. Perhaps they have information on Finch, but Reese doubts it to his frustration. The first 24 hours are the most important hours in the case of a kidnapping- he doesn’t particularly care if this Leon Tao is hurt or not, he just wants to find Finch.  

He decides against going after Tao immediately- they always have at least 24 hours.  Instead, he goes to the nearest pay phone and glares at the camera watching it. 

“I know I was Finch’s contingency plan,” he tells it- torn between furious anger and feeling ridiculous, “but you will help me find Finch.  Otherwise I won’t work the numbers. And no one else knows about you, do they?” He looked at the phone, but it did not ring. After a couple minutes of silence, Reese went back to the Library.  If the Machine would not help him, he would figure it out himself. First, to track down Mr. Tao. That, at least, Fusco could help with.

And help Fusco did, figuring out that the man owned a car with an anti-theft tracker on it and activating it, leading Reese right to the man of the hour.  The bar that the man is at isn’t exactly a high end establishment and Reese hangs up on Fusco as he walks in. A quick scan of the bar reveals exactly where the man is- sitting in the back with a man who doesn’t look all that friendly.  

Reese walks up, expecting a fight.  Which he gets. Throwing the guy across the room and onto the bar feels wonderful, especially since he hasn’t had anything to release his frustration since Finch has been taken.  But it’s even more satisfying to break the window of a cop car and leave Leon there- the man whines and normally, Reese might be able to take it. But right now he doesn’t have the patience for any shenanigans- which of course means that Leon manages to escape police custody and get himself plus Fusco, who was supposed to keep Leon  _ out of trouble _ , kidnapped by the Aryan Brotherhood.  So much for his plan.

The Leon-and-Fusco situation is something that Reese can deal with immediately, so he does.  It involves him getting a little roughed up, but he’s not too worried. They drag him in to meet their boss- first Reese sees Leon and Fusco tied together and creatively silenced with ball gags.  Then he sees the dog and has to laugh- even as he gets punched. It’s been a while since he’s seen a Belgian Mangolise, but he still remembers the Dutch commands.

“What’re you laughing at?” The man holding the dog sneers at Reese and Reese simply smiles up at him before barking a command in Dutch and watching the dog go for his throat.  In that same second, Reese moves- throwing a man out the window, stealing a gun, and disarming a few more as he goes. Once he’s cleared the room, he eyes Fusco and Leon. It’s so tempting just to leave them, because how much more trouble could they get in?  But in the end, he flicks his pocketknife open and frees both of them before leaving- the two of them stumbling after him. Then a dog barks, and Reese looks backwards, as he gives the smallest smile before ordering the dog to come. 

When Reese got Finch back, he’d give him the dog.  That way he wouldn’t have to worry about anyone getting close enough to steal Finch again.  John acquired a car with the intention of dropping Leon off in the airport, but they had to make a small detour to a storage unit where they found a dead body and a loop of money instead of the trail he was hoping for.  Whoever had Finch was good. 

Then he snapped.  He needed a lead- and the only person who could give him a lead was The Machine.  Who couldn’t, for some frustrating reason, give him the information he needed. Thankfully, The Machine gave in before Reese and Leon were shot dead and gave Reese another lead.  Then they had to flee to a nearby parking garage with the Aryan Nation chasing after them. 

They were nearly to the car when Reese came face to face with the hulking giant that was the leader of the Aryan Nation.  In an effort to protect Leon, Reese went into hit the man, surprised when his hand made a solid thud against the chest and the man was unfazed.  The man proceeded to pick Reese up and slam him against the car.  _ Fuck _ .  That hurt.  Reese wondered for the first time if he’d met his match, but then there was a  _ fwump _ sound and the man hit the ground.  Reese looked for his savior and smiled up at Carter when he saw her standing on one of the higher levels of the parking garage.

“Oh no!”  Leon moaned and Reese wondered what it was now as he walked around the car.  The car door was open and the dog was gone- as well as the bonds. 

“Glad to see you cared so much about my safety, Mr. Tao.”  Reese responded calmly as he leaned into the car, ignoring Leon’s sputtered comments.  It would have taken a lot of get a Belgian Malinois to budge, but there was a particular scent in the air.  It took him a second to recognize it, but when he did he grinned. “The bonds and…” Really, he couldn’t keep calling the dog just ‘dog,’ could he?, “and Bear are safe.”  He finished. 

“Yes, yes,” Leon replied, looking frantic, “but where are they?”

Reese shrugged, “I don’t know.”  His phone vibrated and he pulled it out- it was an unknown number with just an address.  “I assume you have other assets and lied about losing all the Aryans money.”

“No, I didn’t!”  Leon protested. Reese raised a disbelieving eyebrow.  “Okay,” Leon admitted, a bit sheepishly, “maybe like...95% certain?”  Reese was willing to bet Leon had quite a bit stashed away somewhere else, but he’d see if he could convince Mr. Webb to return the bearer bonds he had liberated at well.  

“You can go home now,”  Reese suggests, “the threat has been mostly taken care of-”

“You’re welcome for that, by the way,”  Carter says as she approached.

“I could’ve taken him,”  Reese replies as though he hadn’t been nearly stunned by the man and found his punches highly ineffective.  

“Uhuh.” Carter looks amused.  “Get what you were looking for?”

“Maybe.”  John certainly hopes so.  The Machine should have given him a good number, rather than someone else like Leon.  “We’ll see though, I’ll keep you guys in the loop. In the meantime, I’ve got someone I need to talk to.”

“Someone who might know where he is?”  Carter sounds hopeful, but Reese shakes his head.  He doubts Webb knew anything more then he did at this juncture.  The only one who would was The Machine and it was being extremely tight lipped on Finch’s orders.  They were going to have words about that later.

“Make sure he doesn’t get into any trouble,” Reese says over his shoulder, “and tell Fusco to keep an eye on him too.”  Leon gives a shout, probably something about being able to take care of himself, but Reese ignored it as he strolled away through the garage looking for something lowkey to jack.  He didn’t have any wheels besides Leon’s and he wasn’t going to ride back with that man if he could help it. 

Reese eventually settles on a nice Toyota with relatively simple anti-theft devices and an easy tracker to disable.  Then he heads right off to the address he’s been texted. The place in question was small and classy, though the windows had been sealed from the inside and definitely looked a little thicker than the standard home windows.  Paranoia, thy name is sometimes Webb. Reese couldn’t really blame him, though, and knocked on the door. 

Webb opens it up, wearing a simple apron and plain clothes, and Bear bounds up to Reese and practically knocks him over.  “Hiya, Bear,” Reese says into Bear’s fur, stroking him. 

“Ah, you’ve named it.”  Webb replies, leaving the doorway open with Reese and Bear practically lying on it.  “It looked a little hungry, so I picked it up and fed it. The bonds that it decided were tasty are over there,”  Webb points haphazardly to the living room as he goes back to the kitchen. There was no particular smell emanating from it, but it was obvious that Webb had been cooking something up, which made Reese rather curious.  “What did you need me for? You seemed to have Mr. Tao very much under control.”

“It’s not about Mr. Tao,”  Reese answers, gently pushing Bear off himself and standing, “It’s about Finch.”

“Ah.”  Webb’s quiet exclamation almost disappears due to the acoustics of the house but Reese hears it.  “What do you need me to do?”

“First, I need access to the Dewey Decimal Systems.”  Webb is still busy in the kitchen as Reese says that, but he heard the few seconds of silence as Webb debated asking him what he meant then deciding against it.

“There’s a computer in the living room.  Knock yourself out.” Webb finally replies.  “Dinner will be ready in a couple minutes.”

Look at that, he’s apparently getting fed a home cooked meal.  There are many wonders to being in Finch’s employmentship and one of them is getting takeout so this could be interesting.  Spies usually aim for substance rather than taste. “What’s for dinner?” 

“Vegetable stir fry and quinoa.  A friend’s favorite, I think you’ll like it.”  Shockingly vegetarian, and Reese adds a mental note to find out if Webb was actually vegetarian or not later.  It might be important if they have to work together again, though Reese thought it might make being a spy rather difficult if one has limited food options.  

But Reese settles down at the computer without asking for now and gets to work.  Webb’s system wasn’t as intuitive as Finch’s, and Reese thought Webb might have cobbled the thing together himself, which would have been impressive if Reese wasn’t so used to Finch and his skills, which were obviously superior to Webb’s.  Nonetheless, he did eventually figure out what he was looking at- the social security number of a girl who had gone missing in Texas several years ago. His first thought was why was The Machine sending him on cold cases, but then he realized the girl must be Root.  And The Machine was giving him a way to find her.

Webb came in with dinner shortly after Reese had figured out what the Social Security Number was, and Reese figured they would make for Texas together.  But what about Bear?

“How do you feel about Texas?”  Reese asks Webb as he digs into dinner, which was much better than whatever takeout he would’ve gotten to fuel his search for Finch.  

Webb doesn’t look surprised at the question.  “I can be ready to go now. Need to borrow my plane?”  Suppose that answered the question about where Bear would be, though it raises one small question as well. 

“Can you fly the plane?”  What kind of skills was Webb hiding?  

But Webb shrugs.  “Possibly. But I have a pilot hired for such occasions.  Former Air Force. Hope that doesn’t bother you.”

“And he thinks you’re…?”

“Rich and eccentric,”  Webb replies, amused. “Both of which are quite true.  He doesn’t care because I pay him well and turn a blind eye to the fact he’s got a couple black marks on his service history.”  That makes Reese disinclined to trust the pilot, but the other option is flying commercial which will take longer. 

“Fine.  What time can we leave?” 

“I’ll tell him to start fueling, and if everything goes well, that’s wheels up in seven hours.”  Webb already had one of his phones out (just from where he was sitting, Reese could see three more, and he’d heard two other vibrate from places unseen while working).  “Will you be packed in time?”

“I have everything I need already on me.”  Reese isn’t going to waste any time getting ready.  There was a time to sit down and make sure he had everything he could possible need and a time for action.  Right now, it was a time for action. “What’s our gate?”

“Just get to JFK,”  Webb replies as he stood up and gathered the cleared plates from everyone, including Bear’s plate which was licked clean.  “From there, everything should be pretty obvious.” Meaning that, just like Finch, Webb has vasts amount of cash to make everything go a hell of a lot smoother.  Must be nice. But Reese nods and leaves the crash house with Bear and the bearer bonds. If he has the time, he might as well pack up a few things. When he arrives at the airport 45 minutes early, another text dinged on his phone.  It told him just to head out to the tarmac and the plane would pick him up. Bemused, Reese follows the directions and quietly sneaks his way past the security to the tarmac. When Webb had said personal plane, Reese had imagined a Cessna or something similar, but this was obviously quite a few pay grades above that.  It lets down its ramp for him and Bear. They mount the steps and Reese steps into a spy’s wet dream. It looked like something out of James Bond, honestly- more form then function.

Webb looks out of place in a ratty t-shirt that declared support for some group Reese had never heard of, and a pair of jeans that had certainly seen better days and a whole lot of paint.  It wasn’t the suave Mr. Smithfield from the first time they met, but it didn’t really seem a whole lot like Webb either. Bear takes delight in jumping up on a seat (that probably cost more then all of Reese’s belongings before Finch had taken over his wardrobe) and stretches out.  Webb doesn’t look the least bit disturbed, and made a vague gesture to the whole plane without lifting his head from the laptop (a very intense game of solitaire, apparently, since Reese could see the reflection in the glossy surfaces of the plane).

“Where’d you get this?”  Reese couldn’t help but ask as he stows his baggage and takes a seat.

“Won it off a bet.”  Is all the reply that he gets.

“A bet?”  What kind of bets did Webb get into?

“Yes.  I smuggled a 50 ft angry python on public transport and no one noticed.  Worth it.” Reese doesn't know if the man is telling the truth, but accepts it with a grain of salt and settles down to do more research on Hanna Frey, the supposedly dead girl that Reese strongly believes might be Root.  The flight to Bishop, Texas passes in near complete silence except for the occasional clank of keys from Webb. Once they’re actually in Bishop, it doesn’t take long for them to get what they need from the police report, which Webb quickly declares rubbish, disappears for a few hours, and comes back with a now closed bank account in the dead girl’s name.  Reese quickly puts the clues together and feels a bit sick- he wishes that Hanna Frey was Root, that’d be better than her murder at the hands of some sick fuck. At least he knew where Root got her beginning- here in Santa Fe, as Samantha Groves. And she got her revenge for her best friend as well. The whole thing takes less than 24 hours, and they make sure the local police department moves on the evidence they uncovered before the two of them are back in the air.  

Now Reese knew what he was looking for, though, and Root wouldn’t be able to keep Finch away from him indefinitely.  In fact, within 48 hours, Reese had confronted Root in the train station and safely extradited Finch, mentally promising himself not to let the man out of his sight anytime soon.


	4. An Interlude of Home

“I see you’ve decided to stay on, Mr. Webb.” Finch greets the other man who hides in the eaves of the library.  Reese had told him about how he’d invited the other man to work with him while Reese focused in on Root and Finch, so the man’s appearance wasn’t a surprise.  Reese’s report had included everything he thought was important, including that the man prefered to go by the name “Clayton Webb” rather then “Alden Smithfield.”  Despite everything Reese had said about him, Finch was quite glad Reese was by his side- the man had hardly left it since recovering him, and though Finch hadn't asked for it, he was appreciative.

Webb inclines his head to Finch, “Your Mr. Reese makes a very convincing argument.”

“We should work out a payment plan then. I can scarcely ask you to do this for free.”  He limps over to his computer, Bear pressing close to his side. Bear seems to neither like nor dislike Mr. Webb, which meant the man was probably safe- though an even more convincing argument was that Mr. Reese had let him know the location of the Library.  

“That won’t be necessary,”  Webb replies, not moving at all, “just show me where I can put my things.”

Oh, that would hardly do.  Finch wasn’t going to let anyone take this risk for free.  “I insist. Even if you merely give most of it away,” like John was doing, “I like to know you could have everything you need.  We can set it up like the CIA usually does, with bank accounts that will refill themselves automatically when they get low.” Such an arrangement was probably best, since Finch could make all the payments seem natural, as though Webb held down a job that wasn’t quite so...legally grey.

“Mr. Finch, I have my own flow of cash, you needn’t bother.”  Webb was insistent, though. “And I make all my own identities.”

“They’re quite good,” Harold has to give him that.  “Even after I knew Alden wasn’t real, finding proof was hard.  Was he your long term cover?” Harold has something similar set up for Reese, and he hoped the man was keeping up appearances at Warren’s place.

“Only five months.”  Webb admits. “I find it hard to stay in any place longer than half a year, so it was about time for me to move.  But building back has never been a challenge for me. Though I’m sure your Machine saw through my guise and simply gave you the most expedient number it could.  Even I’m not sure what you’d dig up if you got the number I was born under, I burned that identity long ago.” The smile Webb offers Finch looks real, but Finch would bet that’s how it is designed.  He’s studied many men to find someone like Reese, and he’s seen a lot of spies. “As I said, I only need to know where to put my things.”

“You’ll need to ask Mr. Reese about weapons storage, and as for clothes there’s a wardrobe in the back.”  Finch gestures vaguely to it as he thought about a way to get Webb to agree to a payment system. Perhaps just a bank card would do?  And he’d certainly see about making some identities for Webb, since having both him & Reese in the field at the same time could be an advantage.  And it might mean Reese got injured less, which was always good in Finch’s books.

Webb heads towards where Finch gestured, then stops short and looks back at Finch.  “The black suit, it’s not a uniform, is it?” 

In another situation,  Finch might have laughed.  He just shakes his head at Clayton this time.  “No, Mr. Webb. Your own clothes should do just fine.”  Though right now Finch thinks Clayton cuts a fine image in his own black suit- nearly perfectly matched to Reese’s own.  It’s hand-tailored too, but whoever did it isn’t the man who made Alden’s suits- nearly ever high class tailor has their own mark and the marks of Alden’s suits were bold and brilliant, while Clayton’s suits were much more subdued.

“I can show you where to put your weapons.”  John speaks up and strides over to Webb, passing the last picture of Root he could find to the other spy.  “Let us know when we have a number, Finch.”

“Of course, Mr. Reese.”  Finch replies, allowing himself a moment to relax in his place.  This was his safe haven.

Though Reese was sure Finch wouldn’t allow it, he hopes they will send Webb out on his own, leaving Reese to protect Finch.  He doesn’t like the idea of leaving Finch alone, even with Bear, especially after someone had managed to steal him out from under Reese’s nose.

Both ex-agents have alarming tendencies to get shot, so Finch always keeps a well-stocked first aid kit and several changes of clothes on hand.  John's clothes are all the same- white shirt and black suit. With the arrival of Clayton, that hasn't changed. But Clayton's own clothes ran the gamut of fine three piece suits to cheap jeans and threadbare hoodies- one never knew what he was going to show up in or what he was going to leave in.  As such, it's not much of a surprise to come across both of them in some form of undress, though today Finch pauses. Normally there's a new bandage when they're getting changed but he sees nothing of the sort on John. No new injury and they hadn't even begun the hunt for the number- and Finch looked him over twice to be sure.

Clayton catches him looking.  "Is something the matter, Mr. Finch?"  It's been three months and still Finch hasn't been able to get him to drop the 'Mr.'

"Neither of you are injured, are you?"  Perhaps there was something that was already covered.  They were sans shirts, after all, so there could always be something under the pants.

"Oh, no."  John replies, stretching.  "No more than bruises at least.  We sparred. Webb has a mean uppercut."

"Why thank you, Mr. Reese."  Clayton smirks as he chose a violently orange t-shirt from the selection and put it on.  "Do we have a number?"

Finch nods.  "Yes, I was just about the call you two."  John grabs one of his white button ups, but didn't bother to actually button it up after he slides it on and simply throws the jacket over his shoulder, Webb at least had the sense to zip up his truly ugly yellow windbreaker.

"I'll grab breakfast then,"  Webb slides his comm into his ear and nods to both of them, "and yes, Mr. Reese, I know you don't like the croissants from my favorite place on 3rd.  Will the one on 10th do?" Reese considers, then nods as Webb selects one of his many canes from the closet. This one, Finch knew, happened to double as a taser if needed.  There was something to be said for the paranoia of spies. "Then keep me in the loop." Webb slowly hobbles down and out of the library while John and Harold went to the hub where the computers were.  Their number was the owner of a small time laundromat who had mounting debts and Finch relayed this all to John as he sat in his chair and went to work. John carefully hung the pictures from their board as they fell into their comfortable routine.

Every other morning, John tries to grab drinks for all three of them.  Now this was sometimes a challenge- Finch likes Sencha Green Tea and there were only so many places one could get that.  Webb's tastes for drinks were thankfully less refined than his taste in clothes, so just about anything went with him- but never the same drink two days in a row.  Today he'd also grabbed some macaroons from a decent French bakery nearby. The tea and the box of macaroons went on Finch's desk and John went on a hunt for the two men who were supposed to be here (and Bear was here, which meant at the very least Finch had beaten him here).  Finch happened to be making a simple breakfast on the hotplate and gave John one of his bemused half-smiles when he spots him.

"Good morning, Mr. Reese.  I'm afraid it'll just be us today,"  Finch tells him.  "For now at least, the Machine has been quiet so Webb is doing some errands in another city."  John nods and watches Finch cook in silence until Finch moves away from the stove with his plate.  Without needing to be told it's there, Finch grabs the tea that is for him and takes a deep breath into the steam- his shoulders relax and his eyes close.  It is one of the more enjoyable moments of John's morning, honestly.  

The two of them settle down around the computers and Bear comes over to beg food off of them, though both pretend not to give in.  One the quiet days like these, it is nice to simply be with one another.  The rain pours outside, both of them can hear it echo through the library, but up here?  It is their own little world, not shared by anyone else- right up until they get a number, a face goes up on the board, and the clock starts counting down.  


	5. Harmon Rabb & The Wrong Suited Man

There’s five people down here in the dark.  Reese has already gotten the number and her boyfriend upstairs to Finch.  Webb may or may not be around, having both appeared and disappeared throughout the break in.  There’s no way he can get out, not without risking Finch. And when it comes down to it, Reese refuses to put Finch in any danger- not even to save his own life.  When SWAT bursts in, it’s a saving grace even as he sees Webb rounded up with the hired hitmen from Chappel. Webb is wearing a black suit that Reese could’ve sworn was slate gray earlier-in fact, Webb’s suit looked startlingly similar to everyone else’s.  

They’re processed together, Webb’s eyes steadily looking forward.  They take DNA and are led to isolation where Reese discovers a phone from Finch.  Webb takes this time to take a nap- now that the government has his DNA, it’s only a matter of time before certain people become aware that he’s alive.   

It’s a race against of time for Finch and the detectives to replace the DNA.  They do get through and replace Reese’s in time, but it’s too late for Webb’s DNA, which has already been processed.  So it’s on to damage control for them, unaware that DC knows of The Spy That Lived, and sent a man to deal with it.

Captain Harmon Rabb-MacKenzie strolls into Rikers with nothing but an empty briefcase a day after Webb, Reese, and the hired goons have been arrested.  Four hours later, he emerges with Reese beside him. What happened inside goes something like this:

Captain Rabb-MacKenzie is escorted right to Agent Donnelly, who regards him with suspicion.  

“Who are you?”  Donnelly demands, already looking for the man to escort this interloper out.

Harm smiles at him disarmingly.  “I’m Captain Harmon Rabb-MacKenzie.  You’re unlawfully holding one of my men.  When you ran DNA, we were flagged. We’d like him released.”  He glanced over at the wall of headshots. “I won’t even make a stink about the others, despite the laws you’re breaking.  And don’t even try to cite the Patriot Act. I know it backwards and forwards.” Never once does Harm hesitate and Carter knows a good lawyer when she sees them- this?  Is an excellent lawyer.

Carter looked between Harm and Donnelly, wondering if this man was one of Finch’s, though the man didn’t seem the type.  And active military working for Finch? The man couldn’t do that, could he? Reese was one thing, but Captain Harmon Rabb-MacKenzie was a whole different league.  

Donnelly turns to fully face Harm, squaring up.  “I’m holding these men here under the AUMF, NAA, and Patriot Act.  It’s perfectly legal.”

Harm scoffs but doesn’t pick a fight.  “We aren’t here to discuss their constitutional liberties nor the US thinking they’re above the laws of the rest of world.”  There is something dangerous lurking behind the Captain’s smile but Donnelly seemed unaware of it. “I’m just here to secure the release of my man.  You cannot hold him once you know his identity. I’ll be happy to talk to you about him. May I ask who you’re looking for?”

“The Man in the Suit.”  Donnelly’s retort was short and obviously angry.  If Carter had been in the Captain’s shoes, she’d have left and come back with more firepower.

“Former CIA now working for private Chinese Intelligence, that’s what you believe, isn’t it?”  The Captain sounds bored, as if he’s talking about the weather rather than the Man in the Suit.

“How do you know that?”  If calming Donnelly down was any part of what the Captain was trying to do, he’s completely failed.  

“You aren’t the only one interested.”  Harm informs him flat out. “Perhaps we can be of some use.  We’ll give you everything we have on him, if you give me my man back.”

“How do I know you’re legit?”

“You can call the Pentagon.”  Harmon smiles and it’s actually quite a nice smile this time.  “Or my wife, though be mindful of the time difference. I can get you my deployment records too.  Or just cite law at you.”

Donnelly uncrosses his arms, having found something in there to make listing to this man worthwhile.  “You’re Army Intelligence?”

“I’m JAG.”  Harm replies, seeming to relax and Carter rolls her eyes- it was a dick measuring contest.  “But John’s Intelligence.”

“John?  As in John Warren?”  Donnelly sounds surprised and Carter knows it’s because John had been his prefered choice for The Man in the Suit.

“The one and the same.”

“Army Intelligence is working on a domestic op?”

“No,” Harm shakes his head, “John Warren is retired but still considered to be one of ours.  Do we have an issue?”

“Yes, your man was found at the scene of a crime.  He might be a terrorist and wanted criminal and you want me to just release him.”  Donnelly wasn’t going to budge on this, Carter could see the stubbornness rearing in his eyes and hoped that Harm knew what he was doing.

“Let’s go somewhere private to continue this discussion.”  Harm suggests, putting his hands out placatingly, like he hadn’t just been shaking the cage earlier.  “I don’t trust the Chinese not to have tapped your operation.”

Donnelly stiffens at that, and Carter couldn’t help but wonder if she’d been compromised.  Harm takes a sharp turn out of the control room and Donnelly follows after him, motioning for Carter to join him so she did.  Harm walks straight to a small room and put his briefcase on the table and clicked it open before pulling out several pieces of paper.  “His name is John Warren, and he’s allowed to talk about everything but what exactly he did for us. I can answer those questions if you want or I can release him to talk about one op specifically.  For national security reasons, I’m going to have to ask you to refrain from asking him any more questions about his former work.”

“He never said anything about working for Army Intelligence, though.”  Donnelly returns evenly. “And he told Carter stories of active combat.”

“He did serve in active combat- those are not lies.  Here are the dates he did so.” Harm pulls out several sheets of paper and lays them against the table.  A swift look over them confirms to Carter that these are the same dates John mentioned during the interrogation.  

“If he’s Army Intelligence, who do you think is The Man in the Suit, then?”  Carter asked, crossing her arms and hoping this was one of Finch’s spin men.

“We believe it’s a man who goes by the alias of Claymore,”  Harm replies, pulling a file out. “Again, I’m more than happy to give it to you for Mr. Warren.”  Donnelly looks tempted and Harm moves in for the kill. “I will have to stay here until Mr. Warren is released, as requested by the United States military.”  

“Fine.”  Donnelly replies shortly, “You can have your man.  But give me the file.” Harm hands over the file, and Donnelly only reads a short bit before he leaps up.  “It’s Michael Johnson,” he hisses as he strides out of the room and Carter follows after him. Johnson was one of the more uncooperative men, having been unfazed by any threats or promises Carter had levied against him and completely uninterested in anything Carter had to say.  Donnelly hadn’t liked him for the Man in the Suit, despite not playing along, and Carter had to wonder if Johnson had been the fall guy all along. Nothing he said had indicated him, but nothing he’d said had cleared him either, and Carter had to wonder what the hell Finch was selling him.  Or if he even knew he’d been sold. The man was currently napping in his cell- one of his favorite things to do, according to the guards. Johnson didn’t look like a cold blooded CIA killer, but then again, neither did John.

Donnelly was working on getting Johnson woken up and John released at the same time.  There was some kind of maniac, assured energy around him- he’d caught his man, and now he was going to get his confession.  More like Carter was going to get his confession. Carter just hoped this worked. Johnson was dragged in, hands cuffed with still a sleepy sheen in his eyes.  It wasn’t really a good way to start convincing Donnelly this man was the Man in the Suit, but by god Carter was going to try her best. 

This time, Carter actually listened to Donnelly’s comments about breaking the suspect, asking all the right questions.  Johnson stared back at her, unperturbed by everything she threw out him. Right until Donnelly told her by the comm that John had left the building with his escort, then Johnson had shifted in his chair and looked at the singular camera in the room.  

“Ask him about his name,”  Donnelly repeats for the fourth time.  She could hear him leafing through the manuscript that he’d gotten from Harm and wondered what the hell was in there.

“What’s your name?”  Carter asks straight out.  She’d tried threatening, cajoling, and trying to catch him on the wrong foot but that hadn’t worked so all she had left was this.  Johnson tapped on the desk. “What’s your name?” Carter repeated, leaning forward on the desk. Johnson’s tapping repeated itself- perfectly.  Curious, Carter repeats the question again and it’s the same tap. This time, Carter pays very close attention. It’s not morse code, but there’s definitely a pattern to it.  

Donnelly frowns at the one way glass.  “Call him Gabriel Bisset.” 

Carter wants to know what the tapping means, but the same question won’t give her that answer.  “How’s your cell, Gabriel?” 

He smiles at her and tells her it’s very comfortable.  In flawless French. Which just about exhausts Carter’s knowledge of French.  He asks her a question in French (obvious by the slight inflection at the end of his voice) but Carter doesn’t know what he actually said, and the tapping is still there.  Modified from last time, but present. 

“He asked you if you could get him paper.  The answer is no.” 

“I’m sorry, Gabriel, but I can’t get you paper.  Perhaps if you cooperated more…” Questioning continues along this vein for hours, and Carter carefully tracks the taps, looking for a pattern.  During this time, they discover that Johnson speaks nearly twelve languages with a variety of fluencies and responds to just about any name one throws at him.  Donnelly has confirmed the man has conducted hundreds of foreign and domestic ops through translators and really, whoever the hell Johnson really is, Carter is pretty glad she’s not sitting in a room with him anymore.  At least she knew where she stood with John.

It was later that day, long after John had been released and the FBI temporarily vacating Rikers when Carter realized what Johnson had been tapping- binary.  And considering he’d been looking at the camera when he said it, he might have someone working with him. She quickly calls Donnelly, not caring how late it is, and tells him what she noticed and thinks it is.  Her binary isn’t the best, but she does know the first word Johnson had laboriously spelled out- F I R E. They rushed back to Rikers which thankfully wasn’t on fire and had plans to move Johnson somewhere else immediately.  Someone obviously knew where the man was and was aiming for get him out.

Unfortunately, all their efforts were for nothing.  During the early morning, a fire alarm was tripped, saying there was a fire in the laundry room (there was indeed a fire in the laundry room too) and despite the man having seven guards on him, he’d slipped into a group of Elias’ men and never emerged.  Could be a good thing or a bad thing, but Carter had the feeling they hadn’t seen the last of him. 

Donnelly was pissed- they had managed to capture the Man in the Suit and all it had taken was a little fire alarm trick to make him disappear.  But they had a name, face, fingerprints, and DNA- it was a matter of time before they caught him again- or so Donnelly said. But he was also so angry he had left Johnson alone long enough for the man to figure out how to walk away.  


	6. Bomb Threats for Dummies

Then comes the fun part.  When Rabb walks out of Rikers with a very confused John “Warren” with him, The Machine gives Finch two numbers.  He calls Rabb just in time to hear a truck slam into their side and Finch calls Fusco, knowing that Carter is still tied up with “Johnson.”  Fusco gets to the car crash scene in minutes, but by the time he’s there, there is besides a merrily burning shell of a car. Thankfully, there is also no bodies so that means wherever Rabb and Reese are, they are alive.  Finch uses that to keep him going and eventually he uncovers some grainy recordings of the accident in question and gets confirmation that someone pulled them both out of the car after a very brief firefight.

He uses his network of computers to look for either of them- assuming wherever one is, the other should not be far behind.  There isn’t a break in the case until he gets a text from an unknown number with John’s panic code on it. The trace on the phone takes mere seconds and what Finch knows after that is that John and Captain Rabb are still alive.  They’re being held by Kara Stanton, John’s old CIA partner who is supposed to be dead. Seems the CIA is really bad at keeping track of who is actually dead and who isn’t. Snow’s body is found in the dumpster with the unconscious ATF agents and then there’s bomb threat.  Finch knows John and Rabb are going to be in the center of that- there's a level 5 DOD site in the building and considering the other things Kara has at her disposal, it seems like a nice little target for her.  

And then there’s the call from John.  Normally, talking to John in any way is a shear delight but today it is tampered by the fact both John and Rabb are strapped into semtex bombs.  Finch doesn’t know Rabb personally, but apparently both being strapped to bombs has given the two of them some bonding time, if their banter during the call is any indication. They’re also in a facility with some really interesting things, but Finch cannot think of what Kara wants in there, right until she talks about uploading something.  His Machine was built to withstand just about everything and it is his code she’s using so he’s not really worried about that- he is, however, worried about John and his new found friend. So he isn’t really paying attention to what John is saying, even as he orders Detective Fusco to bring Reese to him.  It’s a bomb attached to a computer and Finch does know computers, he’s not going to let Kara take John away from him.

Of course, Reese wants to be noble and even threatens to shoot Finch to make him get off the roof and leave him to die- it’s not hard to call John’s bluff.  The man has gone to some extreme lengths to make sure Finch is alive and well, the man won’t waste that right now. Besides, John obviously sees the logic in letting the computer man work on the computer. Finch doesn’t spare a thought for the other man also strapped a bomb like this- he’s not up here on the roof, so right now he doesn’t exist in Finch’s world.  His world is focused in on John, the bomb, and his cold fingers. So much so that he nearly misses when John starts talking.

“You know, a couple of years ago I would’ve triggered the bomb.  Taken Kara with me.”  John starts with. Finch swallows because he knows. He knows what John was planning to do before Finch offered him a job and honestly?  Finch is so, so glad that John took him up on it. Where would Finch be without John? “You saved me, Finch.”

“I merely gave you the means to save yourself,”  Finch replies quietly, knowing that John hears him.  “You’ve always been strong, John. Don’t sell yourself short.”  He thinks of the bullet John gave him not that long ago. The one that had John’s name on it.  The one that he had melted down and now wears as cufflinks. They can’t be used to hurt John anymore.  

For a few seconds, Finch works in silence.  “He’s Webb’s.” Reese says, relaxed completely on the rooftop like he hadn’t been about to do something noble, stupid, and self sacrificing and also didn’t currently have enough semtext to blow the building skyhigh.  "That's why Kara wanted him.  Said hurting Webb was more then she could've hoped for."   

“He’s Webb’s what?”  Finch reflexively asks, though he’s not really paying attention to Reese or what he’s saying.  The phone is a much bigger problem, he needs to circumnavigate- oh, yes, the SIM bound codes. There’s only going to be three, so he just needs the right one.  

“Finch.”  Finch is halfway through typing the code when John says his name and he looks up, curious as to what John is saying.  “He’s Webb’s Finch.” Finch hits the last button he needs to unlock the phone and hurriedly disarms it so nothing will happen.  In the distance, there’s an explosion and for a second, Finch is just elated that it’s not John, not his John, that they’re both still here that he fails to process the fact that was probably Rabb until he sees John’s face.  

“That was far away,”  Finch assures Reese awkwardly, wanting nothing more then to reassure himself that Reese is alive.  John has been gone a long time, between Rikers and the kidnapping and Finch doesn’t like it, he wants John with him every day, if possible.  “He probably got as far away as he could to avoid civilian casualties.”

“Yeah,”  Reese replies softly.  “Can we go home?”

There’s still a thrill in Finch’s heart as John says that, though he knows that one of them is now going to have to get a message to Webb telling him that Harm is dead...and Finch doesn’t know how Webb will take that.  While there were indications of a run in with a CIA agent throughout Harm’s early career, Finch hadn’t paid them any mind because the agent had been labeled deceased and had disappeared after only six years- nothing remarkable.  But if Harm had come all this way and had some sort of convoluted plan to get Webb out of Rikers, then the two were obviously closer than anyone knew. Loss could do funny things to people and while Webb was no John, Finch did care about him.  

“Yes, let’s go home.  I’ll get the bomb squad up here…”  And see if there was anything left of Harm, though Finch doubted it.  

So both Finch and John were very surprised that when they made it down stairs, Harm was standing in the lobby of the building getting kissed by a shorter women.  It took Harm moments to notice them and he waves John over the second he does.

“John!”  He calls out cheerfully, as though he hadn’t almost died seconds ago but John knows adrenaline can do weird things to people.  “Come meet my wife!” John obligingly comes over, pulling Finch along with him accidentally.  Finch knows the woman- Colonel Sarah MacKenzie-Rabb, wife of the Captain. They’d met when they worked together in JAG and somehow, their marriage had survived quite a few rough spots.  

“How’d you get out?” John asks Harm quietly, well aware there’s some curious ears.  

Harm beams and wraps an arm around Sarah, “Just because we’re desk sitters now doesn’t mean we always were.  I’m afraid the vest might’ve ended up in Kara’s car though. I know you’re big on pacify, not nullify but-” Harm shrugs.  “You try to kill me and I try to kill you back.”

Which is fair and honestly?  John is pretty happy that Kara isn’t an issue anymore.  He sneaks a sideways look at Finch and finds that Finch looks pretty smug too so apparently exceptions can be made.

“Come on,”  Sarah says to them as a group, “there’s a nice hole in the wall Chinese place nearby and we all deserve so much food for what we went through.”  She laces her hand together with Harm’s. “And besides, me and Harm will only be here for another day or two- then we have to go back so you’ll have to fill us in on Webb.”

“Thank you,”  John says diplomatically, “but I think I’d much rather go home.”

Sarah looks between him and Finch, then gives him a nod.  “I understand. Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything and tell Webb to stay out of trouble, would you?  We managed to intercept the DNA sample this time, but next time he might not be so lucky.”

There’s something that strikes John off about that statement.  “So Webb doesn’t know you do this?” That is some serious dedication and acting on Harm’s part, and considering what John has heard from Harm while working through Kara’s plans, the man cares deeply for Webb.  And if you take Kara at her word, that sentiment was returned.    

“No,”  Harm answers, “as far as we were aware, until the FBI ran the DNA test, Clay had been dead for ten years.  We were thrilled to learn he’d just be laying low.”

“And you decided to give him to the FBI?”  Finch asks, wondering how that logic worked.

Harm laughs, “Hardly!  It was his idea. He had one of Elias’ men meet me when I first stepped foot in Rikers and helped me seal the deal.  I was half tempted to say screw it and do what I felt like, but Webb’s plans usually work out. Granted, I had no idea who this John Warren fellow was.  I still don’t know who he is, actually, but I trust him. And his friend.” Harm spares a warm smile for Finch as well and Finch believes he knows why Webb let these two people believe him dead for so long.  Their reunion promises to be interesting. “Now, I’ll leave you two to your thing and we’ll go get Chinese. Maybe we’ll meet again.” The two leave in a whirlwind of quiet bickering about what is the best Chinese food and John watches them go.  Harm without his wife is quite different and he is terribly curious to see how Mac-Harm-Webb works.

But in the meantime, they need to go home.  Finch and John get themselves to cab that drops them off at an office near the library and the driver doesn’t pay attention to their rather crumpled clothes at all.  Up on the rooftop, there’d been something and it still lingered like electric between them.  For now, though, Finch puts it on the back burner as he slips into Rikers' system, John sleeping soundly in the cot just a short distance away.  He is just in time to see Webb's incredibly simplistic escape and wonders why Webb even bothered with extracted John first, right until he watches Webb make a beeline to the hotel where the Colonel & Captain are staying.  He doesn't enter at first, and merely sets up surveillance but then Sarah leans out the window and beckons Webb right to them.  The three of them obviously have some history and Finch leaves them to their privacy so he can join Reese in sleeping.  

The next morning, Finch gets a text from Webb.  It's an address which a quick geo-lookup says in a breakfast all day restaurant.  Obviously, it's a request to join the three of them at breakfast.  Finch looks over at John, who is carefully getting dressed and ready for the day and sends back a text saying they will be there soon.  

"John," Finch has John's attention immediately and he smiles, "Webb has invited us to breakfast with the Rabb-MacKenzies.  Are you up for it?"  John nods and the two of them arrive at the restaurant only a few minutes later.  It is very obvious which booth is theirs.  Somehow, the Rabb-MacKenzies have convinced Webb to sit between them and instead of the agent looking trapped, as he usually does the second he doesn't have at least three escape avenues immediately available, the man looks more relaxed then ever.  Finch takes the inside seat and John takes the outer one- Harm and Sarah offer them both pleasant smiles and Webb just inclines his head slightly at the two.  It sounds like the beginning of a joke: Two JAG officers, two ex-CIA, and one reclusive billionaire walk into a Waffle House...


	7. Enter Stage Right

“Who’s is today’s number?”  Reese asks as he enters the library and leans down to pet Bear. He’s not surprised Finch beat him to the ‘office’ even though they left Reese’s apartment at the same time- Finch likes to take public transport while Reese very much prefers walking himself. 

“We have two,”  Finch tells him without looking up from the computer and Reese gives him an unsubtle look-over.  It’s not the same suit as yesterday, but the wrinkles on it betray the fact it wasn’t kept in the most pristine condition.  Reese can’t help but wonder if Webb notices these things or if he’s too distracted by his JAGs. “Michael Cole and Sameen Shaw.  Finding anything about them was rather difficult, but Clayton ended up being an unexpected wealth of information.” Finch gestures to their board with one hand and it’s easy to pick up who their two numbers are, but Reese’s eyes flint away after a second, looking for the other spy.

“Clayton went out for breakfast,”  Finch replies as though reading Reese’s mind.  “He’ll be back shortly though. In the meantime, I can fill you in.  Sameen Shaw and Michael Cole are a team working for Control- that is, the arm of the Machine that works inside the government project Northern Lights.  Sometimes called the ISA. While they’re authorized to use lethal force, it’s unlikely their number was given to us to prevent them from killing. It seems our Mr. Cole did some digging,”  and that’s when Reese approached behind Finch to look at his computer screen. Finch automatically adjusted his position in the seat to make it easier for Reese to see. “Aquino. That’s why they’re being targeted.  They went searching for The Machine.” The soft footfalls in the library could only be Webb, so Reese didn’t move from his spot. “They have a contact in the CIA.” Finch finishes, looking up at Reese.

“Veronica Sinclair.”  Webb continues, having just come in, and there wasn’t the pleasant wafting smell of any of the normal baked delights the spy procured for breakfast, so in this case breakfast meant a contact run.  Reese wishes he could say he was surprised. “She’s an analyst for the CIA and had contact with Michael Cole about wire transfers in Aquino. That’s not important right now, though, and she’s not in any danger.  She’s safely tucked in at the Farm and has orders not to move.”

“You made contact with the CIA?”  And here John was just starting to think that Webb occasionally used that brain between his ears.

“Not as Clayton Webb, but yes.”  Clayton brushes it off as he goes to the back to change his outfits,  “I’m not having one of the chickadees hurt.”

“...Chickadees?”  It is hard to keep the disbelief out of Reese’s tone, but a hardened CIA agent saying something like that completely stone faced is always a delight.

“Something we call newly minted agents or non-field agents.”  Webb explains. “Don’t tell them that though. Either way, I was able to get the ISA itinerary.  Looks like Mr. Cole and Ms. Shaw will be back in the US, specifically New York City later tonight.  Their supervisor has ordered a hit on them for looking into the Aquino situation. ”

“And what is the Aquino situation?”  Reese asks softly.

Webb offers a halfhearted shrug as he once again re-enters the room,. “I don’t know, nor care to find out.”  Sometimes Webb’s lack of curiosity was downright criminal in Reese’s mind. “But here’s the house number.” He hands Finch a rolled up piece of paper, and Finch obligingly unrolls it and reads it.

“You’re sure about this?”  Reese asks as he reads over Finch’s shoulder.  Finch has the house’s schematics up in a second and it’s a decent place to lay at trap, Reese will admit that.

“Not as sure as you are when your Machine tells you something,” Webb returns with a small, private grin, “but I trust my sources.  If the ISA wants them dead though, keeping them alive is going to be tricky.”

“We’ll have to intercept them before the hit.”

Webb scoffs.  “Neither of them are going to trust us.  Especially not Shaw. She’s a class all unto her own.”

“Is that a compliment?”

“Where it’s due.  It’s a shame ISA swept her up, the CIA would’ve been happy to have her.  But she’s a paranoid son of a bitch. Our best option is Michael, honestly.”

“We’d need to get him away from her,”  Reese points out. “That’ll be difficult.  But you think he could convince her once they’re reconnect?”

“I don’t know him at all- he’s after my time, but she’s got ‘difficult to work with’ written all over her file- so if she’s got a partner, he’s got something going for her.”  And Webb would trust Shaw’s natural instincts over quite a few seasoned CIA agents. His side twinges at the reminder of just how close he’s gotten to her before. “Oh, and the second she sees me she’s going to get difficult.”

“What did you do?”  

“My job.”  Clayton shrugs easily.  “It happened to coincide in not nice ways with her job.  We exchanged pleasantries.” Reese knows Webb well enough to read what he really means: they shot each other.

“Ready?”  Finch askes the two of them, handing over their earwigs.  Clayton nods and John gives Finch one of his private smiles along with a gentle touch on the shoulder before they leave.  Finch watches them from the cameras around New York and settles in- whatever is coming, his ex-agents can cover it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Art for Mr. Finch's Home for Wayward Assassins.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16631318) by [Michaelssw0rd-art (Michaelssw0rd)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Michaelssw0rd/pseuds/Michaelssw0rd-art)




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